


Honeybear

by brideofquiet



Series: What's for Dessert? [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bottom Steve Rogers, But Then It Goes Good!, Celebrations, Couch Sex, Established Relationship, Food Sex, Graduation, M/M, Sleepy Sex, Tipsy confessions of existential terror idk, Top Bucky Barnes, When Sex Goes Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-19 23:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14883072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brideofquiet/pseuds/brideofquiet
Summary: “Oh, uh, actually—not to run out on you guys,” Bucky says, “but I kind of have dessert for Steve back at our place. Something special to celebrate.”





	Honeybear

**Author's Note:**

> Steve graduates college, which I also just did. I'm taking the word "self-indulgent" to brand new heights with this thing. I did also completely ignore how Columbia University's actual graduation ceremonies work so if that bothers you, my intentional bad. Anyways, hire me.
> 
> You can probably read this without reading the earlier works in this series, but as the person who wrote them, I would gently suggest you read the rest of the series first.

The sun is bright, and hot, and annoying as all hell, before it’s even noon. Whatever happened to spring? Steve fiddles with his hat where it keeps slipping at his hairline, slick with a fine sheen of sweat. He’s going to get a sunburn out here. Can he sue the school if he gets a sunburn? _Dear Mr. President, you spoke so long that I turned into a cherry tomato. Forgive my student loan debt and I will not take you to court._

“Steven Grant Rogers.”

Shit, that’s him. He hadn’t even realized he was next.

Steve bustles onto the stage and fumbles his way through the handshake/empty diploma canister hand-off without getting tangled up in anyone’s cords or tassels. He remembers to smile when he shakes the hand of his school’s dean.

Somewhere, over the din of the rest of the crowd, he thinks he might hear Bucky whooping.

Then he’s off, and it’s over, and three photographers have him stop on marks for photographs. Probably he looks like a squinty monster in all of them. He makes it back to his seat a minute later. The vinyl is scalding hot through his robes and pants, but they’ll be done soon.

“Did you like, feel anything?” the girl beside him asks. Lily Roger, he thinks.

Steve laughs, short and shocked. “You know what? I don’t think I did.”

“It goes by so fast!” Lily says. “I think I built it up in my head too much.”

“Happens,” Steve says. “I blame Hollywood.”

Another half hour, and the university president steps back up to the podium to say something banal but heartfelt. Steve turns his tassel to the left with everyone else. It’s simple, and it’s stupid, and he knows it’s barely been a tradition for fifty years. It doesn’t really mean anything to move a piece of string from one side of a hat to another.

But after four years in a B.F.A. program, he’s kind of a sucker for symbolism. His chest expands on an inhale that feels more important than any other breath he’s taken today while the president gives his official send-off.

Then the air fills with sky blue graduation caps, blocking out the sun for a blissful second.

 

 

It takes a good twenty minutes for Bucky’s family to track him down afterward. In a sea of blue caps and gowns, he’s practically a needle in a haystack. Bucky had made noises about affixing a homing beacon to his cap, but that was hardly practical and Steve hadn’t wanted to decorate his besides.

Eventually, after twelve increasingly frantic text messages and one phone call, Bucky’s mom spots him standing under a tree. Defending his shaded territory, morelike.

Bucky reaches him first. He sweeps Steve up in so fervent a hug that his feet leave the ground. Legs dangling, Steve laughs and tries to wriggle free, but Bucky only holds him tighter. His lips smack every accessible part of Steve’s face in a succession of kisses.

“Don’t strangle him, Bucky, gee,” Bucky’s sister Becca says.

“What a day to go, though, huh?” Bucky says, mostly to Steve as he finally sets him down. But he doesn’t quite let go yet. Instead, he leans in for a proper kiss—soft, chaste, public, but his face is doing that whole “I love you with the power of ten billion lithium batteries” thing. Neither of them get sentimental too easy, which is half of why their relationship works, but Steve feels himself smiling too.

“I’m so proud of you,” Bucky says.

“I have a whole degree now.”

Bucky laughs. “The whole thing! You did it!”

“Okay, sweetpea, stop hogging the graduate,” Bucky’s mom Freddie says, from where she has apparently been hovering by their sides this entire time. “I’d like to hug him, too.”

“And take pictures,” Bucky adds.

“Well, of course. Someone has to have their priorities in order.”

“Hey, Mrs. B,” Steve says, pulling away from Bucky. “Thank you guys for coming.”

“Oh, Steve, we wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Freddie says.

“You’re alright,” Becca says.

“Now, Rebecca,” George, Bucky’s dad, starts.

“Kidding! I’m a kid—I kid.” Becca holds up her camera. “Steve, please tell me you’ve learned how to smile like you mean it since Bucky’s birthday.”

Steve puts on his best show face for the camera. Bucky tickles his hip till he’s _really_ smiling, and the camera clicks so many times Becca’s probably signaling in morse code. But it’s nice, to have people around who give a shit that he is now a degree-holding individual. Even Bucky’s dad, more camera shy than anyone Steve’s ever met, smiles wide under his mustache for a few pictures with him.

After Freddie is satisfied they have enough photos, she hurries them all off campus for their lunch reservation. It’s somewhere nice, bougier than anywhere he and Bucky usually go, and far enough away from campus that Steve only spots one other person in Columbia grad gear. Freddie won’t let him take his off, though, even after they’ve sat down.

“It’s part of the fun!” she claims.

Steve may or may not let Becca have a few sips of his bellini while her parents aren’t looking as a form of quiet retaliation. And the whole ordeal _is_ annoying—but truth be told, he’s grateful to have someone reminding him to keep his elbows off the table. It’s as close to having his own parents here as he could have hoped for.

As the server clears away their plates, George asks, “So, Steve, what’s next for you?”

“Uh.” Steve sticks a finger to the dessert menu. “Probably this apple tart.”

“Oh, well, sure, but I meant—”

“Oh, uh, actually—not to run out on you guys,” Bucky says, “but I kind of have dessert for Steve back at our place. Something special to celebrate.”

“Special, hmm?” Steve leans closer to him, intrigued but mostly grateful for the casual dodge Bucky offered him. He knows how much Steve hates that question.

Bucky nudges his foot under the table for about the thousandth time since they’ve sat down. He says into Steve’s ear, “I hope it satisfies you.”

“Suppose we’ll see.”

Never let it to be said that Steve Rogers can’t make a quick exit, even from his own party.

 

 

“Oh my God.”

“You were supposed to keep your eyes closed!”

“Bucky, you do remember that I’m allergic to strawberries, right?”

“Oh, fuck, sorry—gimme a minute. And close your damn eyes!”

Steve drops from his elbows back to the bed as Bucky disappears through the door again. Apparently, when Bucky said he had dessert for Steve at home, he meant it. Now Steve’s wondering if he ought to have taken his pants off at all, if Bucky’s plan is to just eat shortcake in bed. Probably Bucky is just trying to top how Steve surprised him on his own graduation night last December. There had been lots of champagne and massage oil involved.

Let’s face it: there’s only one thing Bucky’s going to top today, and it’s not going to be the shiatsu. But Steve appreciates the effort regardless. It’s sweet.

Literally. Bucky waltzes back into the room, down to his too-short bathrobe now, with a plate loaded with bite-size desserts. Steve spies raspberries, little pieces of chocolate and cake, marshmallows—and no strawberries. Under one arm, he has a can of whipped cream and a squeeze bottle of honey.

Steve cracks a smile. “Whatcha doing with all that, Bucky?”

“I’m gonna eat it,” Bucky says, setting the plate on the nightstand. “That’s what you do with dessert.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

The bed dips as Bucky crawls onto it and, promptly, right on top of Steve. He hovers there, hands braced on either side of Steve’s head. “What?” he says, nosing at Steve’s cheek. “You think I’m up to something?”

Steve narrows his eyes, even as he sets his hands at Bucky’s hips. “I know you are.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Because you can’t play coy for shit.”

“Who’s being coy?”

“Not you. That’s my whole point.”

Bucky’s grin lights up the room. “You can’t play along for one second, huh?”

“I can play along. Is that what we’re doing?” Brow raised, Steve glances at the plate of food. “I don’t—get it, if this is a scene.”

“No, no—Steve.” Bucky kisses him once, off-center and smiling. “You’re my dessert. I’m yours. I’m gonna lick whipped cream off your nipples.”

“Oh.” Steve’s mouth twists. “Can’t we just—eat it? Then have sex?”

“You don’t even want to try it?”

“I mean, it just seems kind of messy, and these are the good sheets.”

“We have three sets just like these, for just that reason. Come on, Steve.” Bucky gives him one of those looks, with his eyes all warm and his lips just slightly pursed. He ought to talk to his boss about how to patent that shit, because Steve caves to it every time. And it’s not like Steve hasn’t shown up at the foot of the bed asking for—well, more than raspberries. He’ll try just about anything once.

“Fine,” he says, and smiles. “Show me what you got, Barnes.”

“Sweets for my sweetie,” Bucky says, and kisses him again. “Honey for my honey. Marshmallows for my little—”

“If you finish that sentence, we’re done here.”

“What? I’m just sweet on you.”

“I swear to _God.”_

“You’re a snack, Rogers.”

Steve really means to push him out of bed and onto the floor. He gives it an honest effort and shoves at Bucky’s shoulders, gets a heel pressed to his thigh to kick. Only then his hands just wind up inside Bucky’s robe, and then he’s pushing it off and he kind of forgets his whole plan once Bucky starts kissing him. Shakes out like that, most of the time. A full year into this relationship and they’re both still randy for each other like teenagers in the back row of a movie theater.

It’s a good thing they’ve got going on. Even if Bucky insists on the stupid pet names. Who’s he calling marshmallow?

“Remember we’re supposed to meet Nat and Sam out later,” Steve mumbles, so he can at least claim that he tried to be responsible if they forget the time. Again.

“‘Course,” Bucky says against Steve’s clavicle. Then he sits up and divests himself entirely of the robe, straddling Steve’s lap. When he reaches for the can of whipped cream, Steve opens his mouth and makes an expectant noise. Bucky rolls his eyes, but fills Steve’s mouth with a generous helping of cream.

“Be sure and swallow,” he says, smirking.

Unfortunately, due to his mouth being filled with whipped cream, Steve can’t make the comeback that he wants to. He settles for pinching Bucky’s hip while he swallows.

“You’ve still got some—” Bucky points to his lip, but before Steve can wipe his face, Bucky and his tongue are there to do the job for him.

Everything devolves pretty quickly from there.

Bucky lays a trail of whipped cream along Steve’s neck and onto his chest. He takes his time following it—licking, sucking, savoring. Every few inches he pauses to wipe some cream up with a piece of cake and feed it to Steve. Soon the whole room smells sugary sweet. Steve’s head starts to spin by the time Bucky does finally make it to his nipples—swirling cream and then, with a little giggle, placing a raspberry dead center. Steve might’ve called him a dork for that, if he wasn’t busy gasping while Bucky sucks his real nipple clean of the artistic rendering.

Fine, this is hot, whatever. It’s getting him worked up, at least.

“Something else you might wanna taste,” Steve says.

Bucky glances up from where he’d been worrying a piece of chocolate over Steve’s lower belly. The corners of his mouth, smudged with chocolate, tip up. “Really?” he asks.

“Uh huh,” Steve breathes. “Tastes pretty good too, or so they say.”

Bucky hums thoughtfully, his fingers stroking at Steve’s thighs where he’s braced between them. “I don’t know,” he says, leaning in close. “This chocolate’s pretty good.”

“Buck, _please._ You’re killing me.”

“What is this, Veggie Tales? Food’s not supposed to talk, Steve.”

“Yeah, and you’re not supposed to play with it either. C’mon, just pretend it’s a popsicle.”

Bucky laughs, brassy and delighted. For a moment, with the glint in his eye, Steve thinks he might actually stop his goddamn teasing. But alas, Bucky goes right back to licking everywhere but the one place Steve is dying to have his mouth. Steve’s head hits the pillows with a sigh. He can’t even be mad. Much as he might wish Bucky would get the hell on with it, he can’t complain about having Bucky literally all over him.

Even if he is starting to feel kind of sticky and gross. Probably should’ve put a towel down. He’s pretty sure there’s chocolate melting under his left asscheek right now.

Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of a hand, then reaches for the honey. It’s the bottle he uses for his fancy herbal teas, so it’s half empty already.

“Turn over,” he says.

Shit. Steve’s never getting his dick sucked at this rate. Ever the good sport, though, he turns over and lets Bucky’s drizzle honey over his shoulder blades. Steve’s starting to wonder what Bucky’s caloric intake is up to. Or how he’s not getting dry mouth.

Jesus, but that honey’s sticky. Bucky has kind of a hard time getting it off Steve’s skin, which means he only has to suck harder. Steve bruises so easy, he’s going to be covered in hickeys. But it does feel damn nice to have Bucky working a steady path down his back like that. When Bucky’s teeth sink into the curve of his ass, Steve starts to rut helplessly against the sheets. He’s about thirty seconds away from demanding Bucky devour him whole already.

Bucky laves over his lower back, the globes of his ass, lower and closer till fucking _finally,_ goddamn, he parts Steve’s cheeks and licks a deliberate stripe between them. Steve moans into the crook of his elbow and pushes back into Bucky’s mouth.

“Gimme it like that, sugar,” he breathes. “Come on.”

Bucky tongues over him again, right where he’s hungry for it. Just a tease with the tip of his tongue, and he’s driving Steve wild. The cap on the honey cracks open again. Steve could almost cry he wants it so bad. Bucky drizzles honey right into the divide of his ass, which is probably not hygienic and definitely kind of gross, but if it keeps Bucky’s mouth right there—Steve doesn’t really give a shit at this point. He’d dip his dick in chocolate syrup if Bucky wanted him to.

Bucky suckles Steve’s skin till he’s clean, then does it all over again. Best dessert ever—better than pie. “Christ,” he moans. “That’s good, Bucky, you’re so good.”

He feels Bucky hum acknowledgement into him. Steve’s fingernails dig into the sheets.

The lid again, and Steve pushes his hips into the air, wishing Bucky would just fuck him already, he’s feeling so pliant and sweet tonight Bucky could practically just—

“Oh—shit, woops, _shit,”_ Bucky gasps.

A huge, gelatinous glob dribbles onto the swell of Steve’s ass and immediately starts spreading.

“Uh,” Steve says.

“Oh my God.”

“What—”

“The cap came off.”

“So that’s—”

“Yeah.”

“Well get a _towel,_ holy shit, Bucky.”

The bed frame wobbles when Bucky leaps off it and dashes into the hall. Steve reaches back to try to stop the spread, but his hands just come away covered in honey, which makes the whole thing worse. It’s on the pillowcase, and in his hair and all goddamn over him at this point. The open bottle is leaking onto their nightstand, too, where Bucky had haphazardly tossed it on his way out.

Jesus. To hell with it. His erection’s wilting by this point anyway. Steve grabs the pillow and wipes the worst of the mess off his ass, then gets up to head for the bathroom.

Bucky is there, gripping a hand towel with his fingers under the tap, waiting for it to warm. He glances up, startled, when Steve pushes past him into the room.

“Oh, hey, I’m just warming the—Steve?”

“I’m just gonna shower.”

“Okay. Um.”

“It’s fine, Buck,” Steve says, cutting on the faucet. “Can you just take care of the sheets? You’ll need to dab them before you put them in the wash.”

“Right, yeah.”

Steve doesn’t spare him a glance before stepping into the shower. His skin is crawling, uncomfortable and unclean. The worst of it comes off under the hot spray, but he still takes the loofa to every square inch of his skin just to make sure he doesn’t come out still feeling sticky as a licked lollipop.

He washes his hair, too, and then just stands under the deluge for a good long while, his face tipped up toward the ceiling. His breath comes long and shaky.

He’s being stupid. It’s not like they haven’t had bad sex before. Sometimes shit just doesn’t live up to expectations, no matter how much they want it to work. There’s no reason for him to feel so doomsday about it. His head thunks against the shower wall.

“Steve?” Bucky calls through the curtain. Steve hadn’t heard him re-enter the bathroom.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Sheets are in the wash.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay.”

The curtain twitches back. Steve’s chest does that stupid fluttery thing, to see Bucky’s blue eyes peering at him all concerned. The weird, overwhelming feeling threatening to swallow him drifts away as if it had only been a passing cloud. His mouth twitches up into a tired smile.

“You need any help in there?” Bucky asks softly.

“I’m okay,” Steve says, but he slides the curtain farther back anyway. “Come on in, though. I’ll get your hair for you.”

 

 

“So,” Natasha says, setting her drink down pointedly, “what’s with sourpuss over here? He trip on the stage or something?”

Steve doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead he grabs his beer and takes a long pull, which only emphasizes her point, so when she raises an eyebrow, he flips her the bird. Their usual bar is more crowded than normal. Sam said something about going dancing instead to properly celebrate, but Steve is hardly in the mood to be _here,_ much less a club.

So, fine, Nat might have some kind of point.

“Seriously, Steve, it’s your graduation night,” Sam says. “Doesn’t tradition dictate you get completely shitfaced and be like, happy?”

“Ah, Sam, cut him some slack,” Bucky says. “It’s been a long day.”

When Steve meets his eye, Bucky reaches for his knee under the table. He gives it a squeeze, reassuring and questioning at once.

“I’m fine,” Steve says. He’s not sure if it’s true, but his friends did come all the way out here to celebrate him. The least he can do is try not to be an asshole for five minutes, so he turns to them with a smile. “Now, which of you shmucks is buying me shots?”

Sam cheers, Bucky grins, and Natasha slinks away from the table to flag down a bartender.

 

 

He gets—a little plastered. Just like, a little bit. You know when it’s a new house and they’re putting the drywall up and they have to smooth over the cracks between the sheets with plaster? But it’s just over the cracks, not the whole wall. Just a little plastered. Not all the way. Christ, when did they install loop-the-loops on the subway track?

“Bucky,” he groans. “Buck. Hey.”

“Shh, honey, we’re almost home,” Bucky says and pulls Steve closer to them, where they’re bumping along toward uptown.

“Don’t—you can’t call me that anymore. Because of what _happened._ When you—”

Steve hiccoughs and loses his train of thought. Bucky sighs, and kisses Steve’s hair, which is very nice of him to do. The train rattles through another turn that makes Steve’s head spin. He burrows closer to Bucky, who reminds him to keep his eyes open, so he stares at his hand on Bucky’s knee till the train lurches to a halt.

“Here’s our stop, Steve, c’mon. I’ve got you.”

“I know you do. You _got_ me.”

“What’s that?”

“You got me good, Buck. I love you.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Yeah, but I love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

Steve’s chest goes all warm and tingly, and it’s not from the alcohol this time. He can’t really remember how many shots he actually did. A lot. Too many? Maybe that many. But Bucky’d been smiling at him so big all night and that made him feel so good. So did the drinking, and both those things had made all the weird creepy-crawlies he’d been having go away.

But now that he’s remembering them, they’re coming back.

“Bucky,” Steve says, pawing at Bucky’s shirt collar. When did they get outside? Bucky has his arm wrapped firmly around Steve’s shoulders, helping him walk. “Bucky, I’m scared.”

“You’re—what? You’re scared?”

“Yeah. ‘S’what I said.”

“What are you scared of?”

“All of it. Hey, why aren’t you as drunk ‘s’me?”

“Because I didn’t drink as much as you.” Bucky’s fingers tighten over Steve’s arm. “Come on, this is us, let’s get you inside. You need some water.”

They make it through the door, and then there’s a couch under Steve’s butt and a glass of water in his hand. He makes a face, but drinks it anyway and god it tastes good, so he downs the rest of it. Bucky takes that one from him and gives him another. The couch cushions dip when Bucky sits down, nearly knocking Steve off balance. Bucky catches him, though. He’s so big and strong. Bucky’s fingers scratch at his back, and Steve leans into him, a happy little clam again.

“How you doing?” Bucky asks, like something’s funny.

“I’m good,” Steve hums.

They sit there for a long while. At some point the television turns on, which must have been Bucky’s doing. It’s something with a laugh track, the volume low. A few episodes must pass before Steve regains the mental capacity to pay attention. _Frasier_ reruns. Of course. He sits up, sets his empty glass aside, and drags both hands over his face.

“Yugh.”

“Feeling alright?”

“Mostly. What time is it?”

“Quarter to one.”

“Jesus, really? I must be getting old.”

Bucky laughs softly, his face lit by the flickering television. “You ready for bed?”

Steve hums thoughtfully, settling against the armrest. He could probably go to bed. Ought to, surely—it’s been a long day. But his stomach’s growling. Bucky just smirks.

“You want that leftover pizza?”

“Have I told you lately that I love you?”

“Only about a thousand times tonight.”

After he soaks up most of the rest of the alcohol with plenty of carbs, Steve is feeling mostly normal again. In fact, he’s kind of keyed up. Setting his plate aside, he wiggles his toes where his socked feet are piled in Bucky’s lap. Bucky glances at him, eyebrows raised.

“Hi,” Steve says.

Bucky’s smile is sweet and sleepy. “Hey there, graduate.”

“Christ.” Steve’s head thunks against the back of the coach.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Steve,” Bucky prompts, but Steve’s not giving him a thing. He should know by now Bucky’s as bad as he is about letting things lie. “Hey—you said earlier, on the walk home, that you were scared. What did you mean by that?”

Steve’s breath rushes out in a huff. Rolling his head to the side so he can see him, he meets Bucky’s eye. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s just—you had this whole shiny job lined up after graduation.”

“You have two jobs, Steve.”

“You know what I mean.” Bucky’s fingers slip under the hem of Steve’s jeans, stroking at his ankle. “You have such a clear path and I’m just, like—out here, with my fuckin art degree. School gave me structure, but now that it’s over, I don’t really know what I want, much less how to get it.”

“You think any of us do?” Bucky asks.

Steve gives him an unimpressed look. “Robotic limbs. Saving mankind. Sounds pretty concrete to me, Buck.”

“Well, sure,” Bucky says. “It _sounds_ concrete, but science is slow-moving and expensive as all hell and some days it doesn’t even feel worth doing because how is a farm kid in Vietnam who got her leg blown off by a landmine ever going to be able to afford these prosthetics? How does anything I’m doing help if it’s not accessible to the people whose lives would be the most impacted by it? It’s all kind of hopeless.”

“Hey,” Steve says, sitting up to reach for Bucky’s hand. “It’s not hopeless. You know that.”

“I don’t, though. Not really.” Bucky shrugs, heavy, and laces his fingers with Steve. “But I’m still trying. I guess that’s what I’m trying to say, that we can’t ever really know how stuff’s gonna pan out in the end, but if you just give in, then there really is no point.”

“I thought I was the idealist in this relationship.”

“You are.” Bucky smiles, and squeezes his hand. “Who do you think taught me that?”

Steve chews his lip, mouth squirming against a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I just don’t want you have to, like—” He breaks off, sighing. “Support me, or anything.”

“Well, I don’t either,” Bucky says, eyes crinkling. “Your supplies are expensive. Get your act together and start making some real money, Rogers.”

Steve huffs a laugh and pushes at his shoulder. “I’m working on it, geez.”

“I’m just saying, though—don’t worry about it so much, okay? If you start looking closely, nobody knows what the fuck they’re doing. You’ll figure something out.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “You’re right. Thanks, Buck.”

“Anytime, honey.”

“You’re _really_ gonna have to stop calling me that.”

“Aw, Steve,” Bucky says, and his face falls. “I’m so sorry about that.”

“Guess you’ll just have to make it up to me.”

“Anything you want.”

Steve’s eyes narrow. “Anything, huh?” Bucky nods, though he looks a little cautious. “You wanna give it to me on the couch?”

Bucky looks around like he’s being punk’d. “What, right now?”

“What was that you said about not giving in?” Steve says, crawling over the cushions till he’s in Bucky’s lap. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to Bucky’s neck, sweat-salty and warm. “It’s the least you could do, since you got me riled up for nothing earlier. You know how I get when I’ve been drinking.”

Bucky’s breath hitches, his hands petting at Steve’s narrow hips. “I’m a little tired for anything too involved.”

“Don’t want anything involved.” Steve bites his collarbone, already working Bucky’s shirt off. “Just want you to drill me and then put me to bed.”

“Yeah, okay, that I can manage.”

They lose their clothes without much fuss, all in a heap on the living room floor that is certainly a tripping hazard. Bucky, ever the military school brat, came to this impromptu couch sex session prepared with a packet of lube. Sometimes Steve likes it to hurt a little, and besides he’s plenty relaxed already, so he only lets Bucky give him the most cursory fingering before he turns over and drags Bucky between his legs. He smooths Bucky’s hair back where it’s swinging forward and tickling his face, then draws him down for a kiss.

Bucky hitches Steve’s legs up, one around his hip and the other splayed across the back of the couch. The head of his dick presses insistently at Steve’s entrance. Steve shifts to get the angle right, and Bucky slides into him in one slow, searing drive. Steve’s eyes water, and his cock throbs, and he aches down to his core in the best way. This is all he’s really wanted all damn day: Bucky pressed up close to him, snug inside him, his little sounds of pleasure the sweetest noise Steve has ever heard.

Christ, he’s in love. That’s so stupid.

But having Bucky with him just like this, maybe for always, scares him less and less every day. If he’s not scared of that, then he shouldn’t be scared of anything. So long as he has Bucky to help him, he can figure everything else out. Bucky’s probably the love of Steve’s live or some other cheesy bullshit.

Either way, he’s definitely the best fuck of Steve’s life. Even slow and tired like this, he has Steve ready to die for it. No one else has ever made him fall apart quite so easily, bare minimum sobriety notwithstanding.

Steve’s gone before he even realizes what’s happening. He comes with a long groan, then goes completely boneless under Bucky, smiling up at him like a dope through bleary eyes. Bucky kisses him, and keeps fucking him through the oversensitivity because he knows by now how much Steve loves to hate him for that. Just when Steve is teetering on the edge of true discomfort, Bucky’s hips stutter. With one more hard, hitching thrust, Bucky sighs into Steve’s hair and goes still.

Steve squeezes around him as he comes, eking out a soft moan as Bucky spills inside him. They ought to have used a condom, since they’re going to bed right after and they just put down clean sheets, but Steve can’t find it within him to care. It gives him a perverse little thrill to try to carry what he can of Bucky inside himself for as long as his body lets him.

True to his word, Bucky carries him to bed. They tangle up together in the dark, under the sheets. Bucky peppers sleepy kisses over Steve’s face, already drifting but awake enough to murmur, “You’re gonna kick ass, Steve.”

 

 

In the morning, once he’s downed some aspirin with his coffee, Steve sets a new canvas on his easel and gets to work.


End file.
